Velocity of Sound
by bonexylophone
Summary: "He could smoke and drink and snort as much as his body could handle and burst out into the street, sated and exuberant for a moment before his brain shifted back into place and life came crashing about his shoulders again."
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: hello again! i'm back! it's been a while since i actually...attempted to write something for fun, i suppose, so this was a welcome bit of exercise.  
>i was deeply inspired by swan-scones and her amazing story <span>hopscotch<span> (go read it!). this originally was about sixteen-year-old murdoc and his adventures in a fight club sort of thing run by hannibal but that...has been scrapped. at least for now.**

**_nonetheless_, swan-scones inspired me to start writing gorillaz fic again and i absolutely adore her for that. thank you. MWAH.**

**this is just a bit of flexing my muscles, i guess, to see if i can still write some lovely angsty sadface murdoc. this takes place post-demon days where everyone is sort of wandering about aimlessly, and for the purpose of this story murdoc and 2D are still mucking about in essex before going on their merry ways. **

**SO! i'm not quite sure where i'm going with any of this but i do like it!**

**ps. the name means nothing, i'm fucking awful at names, i just sort of slapped something on there. tee hee.**

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><p>More <em>fucking<em> rain.

It had been like this for two weeks now in Essex- the usual grey cast of the sky had darkened to an oily shade of black, slashed with brilliant streaks of lightning. As another roll of thunder rattled the cracked glass of Murdoc's window, the man allowed his forehead to fall against the glass. He had been attempting to duct-tape the tiny, pathetic window to keep out the rainwater, but the gathering puddle under the windowsill didn't matter to him much, anyway.

He lit a cigarette to lift the chill from his bones. Didn't do anything, really, but it gave his hands something to do. He'd been _itchy_ lately, a strange way to describe things, but even now as the thought drifted into his mind he could feel his fingers twitch impulsively. He looked over to El Diablo in the corner sadly; poor girl hadn't seen action in months, her glorious cherry red faded behind a mottled, death-choked veil of dust.

The band had been broken up for months now. He hadn't let himself process this yet, instead choosing to choke his memory with repeated substance abuse, beating his mind into submission until the only thing he could think was _more, more, more_.

The boiler exploded to life somewhere beneath his feet and Murdoc started violently, cracking his head against the glass pane. He stumbled backwards and into the toilet, examining the pulpy violet stain burst across his ashen forehead.

_Builds character_. That's what Hannibal used to say when Murdoc would complain of an injury.

_Miserable_. That was how he felt right now, the boiler rumbling beneath the floorboards of the shitty studio apartment he hated so much, his stylish cell phone cold and silent in his hand; both he could easily fill with people, pretend to enjoy himself the way he'd been doing for months now. He could smoke and drink and snort as much as his body could handle and burst out into the street, sated and exuberant for a moment before his brain shifted back into place and life came crashing about his shoulders again, quicker than a lightning flash splitting this oppressive English sky.

He blamed his brother wholly for his current mental state. Fucking Hannibal had called that morning from jail, somehow knowing that Murdoc was rolling in insurance money from Kong, and had begged him to _please pick up the bail, I promise I'm good for it, blood's thicker'n water ain't it Murdoc, c'mon please Muds I don't want to die in here please please _fucking_ please._

Murdoc had slammed down the phone so hard he had crushed the shitty plastic receiver.

His fingers were shaking again, either from withdrawal or fury, or some hellish combination of the two. Coffee. He needed coffee.

Murdoc shrugged into his plasticky leather jacket and stuck an unlit cigarette into his mouth, turning up the collar as he pushed open the door to his flat and ventured out into the rain.

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><p>Murdoc ducked into the first coffee shop he could find on the darkened streets of Essex, a tiny thing with a platform in the corner- for budding musicians, he supposed- and, thankfully, not a soul in sight save for a bored-looking barista.<p>

"Black coffee," Murdoc mumbled into the collar of his coat and the teenage girl eyed him for a moment before nodding. "Mind if I smoke in here?"

"'S empty in here, be my guest," she said to the coffee machine. "There's some performer coming in at 9, though, if you don't mind the noise."

"Nah," he said, taking the warm paper cup and handing her a few rumpled notes. "Uh, here," he said as an afterthought, passing her a slightly-bent cigarette he produced from his pocket. "In case you wanted one too."

She looked up and into the deep-set eyes half-hidden by an unkempt fringe, mismatched, one cornea stained blood-mist red and the other hard, shiny black, like a crow's eye. His stare was piercing and made something in her gut twist, and quickly the barista turned away to rub a dingy cloth over the countertop, clamping chapped lips down on the filter of his cheap cigarette and lighting up with a dainty wrist flick.

He sat in the farthest corner of the shop near the stage, pulling a sodden notepad and half-chewed pen from his pockets. He lit up and took an appreciative drag, blowing a single perfect smoke ring before bending low over his notes.

He hadn't picked up a pen to write a new song in months, just little scratches of a turn of phrase or a scrap of a sentence, fragments that had to be woven together by someone a hell of a lot more talented than he was. Words did not matter to Murdoc and they never had, really, just something spare to twist around the music itself. A pretty bit of jewelry.

Slender, pale hands ran through his oil-slick fringe as he tried to make the words come. They wouldn't anymore, not on command: instead they burst in unbidden, like a few nights ago where he stumbled out of bed, out of some faceless girl's needy embrace, to scrawl the words 'to binge' across the notepad.

Two words.

And to think this mouth of his used to get him into all kinds of shit. He supposed he'd run it dry.

The bell clanged over the doorway as someone entered but Murdoc didn't look up; he flicked cigarette ash off of his paper and began to scribble, pressing so hard that his knuckles bulged from his hands and each letter left a deep scar on the damp paper.

The new arrival ducked into the low doorframe of the coffee shop, swiping his sopping Vans across the threadbare mat sprawled in front of the door. He lowered the hood of his yellow rain slicker, swiped at his rain-splashed face with the sleeve of his flamingo-pink shirt. He clambered onto stage and perched himself on a wobbly stool- delicately, precariously.

Pianist hands ghosted over the neck of an acoustic guitar, searching for notes tangled in the strings, notes to turn into chords to turn into music, something tangible that Stuart Pot could _feel_ between his fingers.

Murdoc looked up when he started to play.


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n: wow, it's been a while! it's taken me FOREVER to write this chapter and i'm still severely unhappy with it. any improvement suggestions would be appreciated!  
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><p>Gnarled bassist hands flexed on the plastic shell of his pen as Murdoc buried his nose in the collar of his coat and peered at the familiar planes of 2D's face, cast dark and deep in the warm amber light of the shop. The boy hadn't looked up yet, both hollow eyes darting back and forth over an unseen piece of music hovering on the strings of his worn-out guitar.<p>

He could feel the hot flush of fury raking its nails down his neck and across his face and quickly he bent his head towards his work again. No, fury wasn't the right word; perhaps betrayal fit better.

His only friend, who had gone from Kong without a single goodbye. Slipped out the back, leaving all of his things in his stupid room in the carpark.

The fury welled in his chest, _real_ fury this time, forcing Murdoc to choke a single, nicotine-clotted cough.

The cough said _look at me_, no matter how much Murdoc didn't want it to.

The fragile, hesitant music stopped cold and flat.

Murdoc inhaled deeply, watching the cherry end of his cigarette burst into a small, sudden flame. He heard 2D's stool scrape a bit on the wood floor, presumably as he leaned forward to peer with his big eight-ball eyes at the previously unseen other patron of the shop.

A tiny whistle as 2D sucked in air sharply between his missing teeth.

The sound of an acoustic guitar set down on the floor, a pick clattering after it as the man stood quickly and squelched across the stage in his wet sneakers. Murdoc let a smile curl around his cigarette for a fleet moment before the chair across from him was wrenched backwards and 2D folded himself into it, all legs and spidery arms.

"Muds," he said, and the note of fear layered into 2D's voice sent a twinge of satisfaction blooming through Murdoc.

"Shit," Murdoc said, partially because he hadn't thought of anything to say beyond that. He took a last drag off of his cigarette and rolled the smoke his his mouth, his tongue lolling out to lick the corners of his lips.

"Yeah," 2D said, slumping down a bit into his hoodie.

"You been alright?" Murdoc asked, dropping the filter into the dredges of his coffee and pulling two more from his coat pocket, lighting both and handing one over. The gesture was familiar and comfortable, and Murdoc could see the edge leaving 2D as he shifted again in his seat, jammed the cigarette through the gap in his teeth.

"Yeah," he said again automatically. "Been alright, I guess, but it's like," he paused to run his tongue across nicotine-cracked lips, "it's like, 'm not _alright._" His eyes were moon-big and shiny as a bird's, filled with nothing but the reflection of Murdoc's face as he peered into their depths. His hands spread apart, fingers splayed childishly to reflect the momentousness of his revelation.

"Me neither," Murdoc said, carefully extinguishing the rest of his smoke and tucking it behind his ear. "You, uh..."

He faltered.

"You miss the band?"

2D's face grew dark and his mouth twisted as though he'd tasted something sour. "Dunno," he said, looking down at the table and tracing a dark stain with a finger.

And, just like that, they were out of things to say.

"You want to-" the words caught in 2D's throat and he coughed, waving away poison smoke, "-want to go down to the pub? Dollar beer night."

Murdoc, who had been preoccupied with eyeing a whorl in the wood tabletop, looked up sharply at 2D, his eyes narrowed in something that hovered on the precipice of distrust.

"Whatcha want with an old git like me? Thought we were done with each other." His tone had mellowed from his customary dark growl to a petulant whine, clearly wringing his former frontman for every drop of pity he possessed.

"Fine then, sod off," 2D said, pushing a tangle of blue hair away from his face. Suddenly Murdoc was seized with an overwhelming urge to lean across the table and hit 2D- he could practically _feel_ the satisfying sting of flesh as his knuckles collided with the bridge of his nose, perhaps, or the soft stretch of skin beneath his jaw. It was a ritual nearly as common as their cigarette-sharing habits, though this time as Murdoc flexed his fist he found himself pausing.

2D looked genuinely miserable.

"Fine, I'll-" Murdoc looked as though he wanted to choke on his words. "-let's...go, then."

2D's face broke into a smile, like sunshine splitting clouds. Not that Murdoc was the poetic type, of course.

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><p>It had stopped raining by the time 2D finished his cigarette and collected his things from the stage. Murdoc pushed open the shop door and rushed out quickly, leaving it to slam unceremoniously shut on 2D's face. Despite himself, Murdoc felt his mouth twitch into a smile.<p>

2D's sneakers scraped on the pavement as he stumbled to keep up with Murdoc's fast clip.

"Been thinkin'," 2D said after he had successfully caught up to the bassist, and Murdoc rolled his eyes.

"Hope you haven't hurt yourself-"

"_Listen_, you git," 2D snapped at him. He looked harshly over at Murdoc who was grinning savagely at him. It was a scary smile, all pointed teeth and bacteria, but a familiar smile all the same. He forgot what he was going to say.

"Nevermind," he mumbled, and Murdoc chuckled. He watched 2D's fingers flex on the worn strap of his guitar, slung over his shoulder carelessly.

"You don't seem very happy to see me, mate."

"I'm not," 2D said truthfully, fixing his eyes on the pavement in front of him. "It's like, I dunno, like seein' a _ghost_ or summfink, you know?"

"Yeah," Murdoc said after a moment. "Yeah, I know."

They paused outside of the pub and both men slumped against the rain-slicked brick wall, and Murdoc absently produced two more cigarettes. A flick, the tiny crackle of a flame igniting, and a deep inhale, and once again the itch left Murdoc's bones.

2D looked over as Murdoc puffed away, studying his old mate's face. His fringe was oily and too long, flopping over his sunken, bloodshot eyes. The circles ringing them were terribly dark and bruise-like, as if the man hadn't slept- or even closed his eyes- in months.

He hadn't.

Murdoc caught him looking and raked his fingers down his face dramatically, emphasizing the shadows beneath his eyes. "I look like hell!" he said brightly. "Haven't slept, haven't done much of anything, really. But that's a story to be told over some dollar beer."

He looked towards the doorway to the pub suggestively. Thunder rumbled overhead.

"Shall we?"


End file.
